The Christmas Tree and the Wedding

(1848)

The other day I saw a wedding... But no! I would rather tell you abouta Christmas tree. The wedding was superb. I liked it immensely. Butthe other incident was still finer. I don't know why it is that thesight of the wedding reminded me of the Christmas tree. This is theway it happened:

Exactly five years ago, on New Year's Eve, I was invited to achildren's ball by a man high up in the business world, who had hisconnections, his circle of acquaintances, and his intrigues. So itseemed as though the children's ball was merely a pretext for theparents to come together and discuss matters of interest tothemselves, quite innocently and casually.

I was an outsider, and, as I had no special matters to air, I was ableto spend the evening independently of the others. There was anothergentleman present who like myself had just stumbled upon this affairof domestic bliss. He was the first to attract my attention. Hisappearance was not that of a man of birth or high family. He was tall,rather thin, very serious, and well dressed. Apparently he had noheart for the family festivities. The instant he went off into acorner by himself the smile disappeared from his face, and his thickdark brows knitted into a frown. He knew no one except the host andshowed every sign of being bored to death, though bravely sustainingthe role of thorough enjoyment to the end. Later I learned that he wasa provincial, had come to the capital on some important, brain-rackingbusiness, had brought a letter of recommendation to our host, and ourhost had taken him under his protection, not at all _con amore_. Itwas merely out of politeness that he had invited him to the children'sball.

They did not play cards with him, they did not offer him cigars. Noone entered into conversation with him. Possibly they recognised thebird by its feathers from a distance. Thus, my gentleman, not knowingwhat to do with his hands, was compelled to spend the evening strokinghis whiskers. His whiskers were really fine, but he stroked them soassiduously that one got the feeling that the whiskers had come intothe world first and afterwards the man in order to stroke them.

There was another guest who interested me. But he was of quite adifferent order. He was a personage. They called him JulianMastakovich. At first glance one could tell he was an honoured guestand stood in the same relation to the host as the host to thegentleman of the whiskers. The host and hostess said no end of amiablethings to him, were most attentive, wining him, hovering over him,bringing guests up to be introduced, but never leading him to any oneelse. I noticed tears glisten in our host's eyes when JulianMastakovich remarked that he had rarely spent such a pleasant evening.Somehow I began to feel uncomfortable in this personage's presence.So, after amusing myself with the children, five of whom, remarkablywell-fed young persons, were our host's, I went into a littlesitting-room, entirely unoccupied, and seated myself at the end thatwas a conservatory and took up almost half the room.

The children were charming. They absolutely refused to resemble theirelders, notwithstanding the efforts of mothers and governesses. In ajiffy they had denuded the Christmas tree down to the very last sweetand had already succeeded in breaking half of their playthings beforethey even found out which belonged to whom.

One of them was a particularly handsome little lad, dark-eyed,curly-haired, who stubbornly persisted in aiming at me with his woodengun. But the child that attracted the greatest attention was hissister, a girl of about eleven, lovely as a Cupid. She was quiet andthoughtful, with large, full, dreamy eyes. The children had somehowoffended her, and she left them and walked into the same room that Ihad withdrawn into. There she seated herself with her doll in acorner.

"Her father is an immensely wealthy business man," the guests informedeach other in tones of awe. "Three hundred thousand rubles set asidefor her dowry already."

As I turned to look at the group from which I heard this news itemissuing, my glance met Julian Mastakovich's. He stood listening to theinsipid chatter in an attitude of concentrated attention, with hishands behind his back and his head inclined to one side.

All the while I was quite lost in admiration of the shrewdness ourhost displayed in the dispensing of the gifts. The little maid of themany-rubied dowry received the handsomest doll, and the rest of thegifts were graded in value according to the diminishing scale of theparents' stations in life. The last child, a tiny chap of ten, thin,red-haired, freckled, came into possession of a small book of naturestories without illustrations or even head and tail pieces. He was thegoverness's child. She was a poor widow, and her little boy, clad in asorry-looking little nankeen jacket, looked thoroughly crushed andintimidated. He took the book of nature stories and circled slowlyabout the children's toys. He would have given anything to play withthem. But he did not dare to. You could tell he already knew hisplace.

I like to observe children. It is fascinating to watch theindividuality in them struggling for self-assertion. I could see thatthe other children's things had tremendous charm for the red-hairedboy, especially a toy theatre, in which he was so anxious to take apart that he resolved to fawn upon the other children. He smiled andbegan to play with them. His one and only apple he handed over to apuffy urchin whose pockets were already crammed with sweets, and heeven carried another youngster pickaback--all simply that he might beallowed to stay with the theatre.

But in a few moments an impudent young person fell on him and gave hima pummelling. He did not dare even to cry. The governess came and toldhim to leave off interfering with the other children's games, and hecrept away to the same room the little girl and I were in. She let himsit down beside her, and the two set themselves busily dressing theexpensive doll.

Almost half an hour passed, and I was nearly dozing off, as I satthere in the conservatory half listening to the chatter of thered-haired boy and the dowered beauty, when Julian Mastakovich enteredsuddenly. He had slipped out of the drawing-room under cover of anoisy scene among the children. From my secluded corner it had notescaped my notice that a few moments before he had been eagerlyconversing with the rich girl's father, to whom he had only just beenintroduced.

He stood still for a while reflecting and mumbling to himself, as ifcounting something on his fingers.

"Three hundred--three hundred--eleven--twelve--thirteen--sixteen--infive years! Let's say four per cent--five times twelve--sixty, and onthese sixty----. Let us assume that in five years it will amountto--well, four hundred. Hm--hm! But the shrewd old fox isn't likely tobe satisfied with four per cent. He gets eight or even ten, perhaps.Let's suppose five hundred, five hundred thousand, at least, that'ssure. Anything above that for pocket money--hm--"

He blew his nose and was about to leave the room when he spied thegirl and stood still. I, behind the plants, escaped his notice. Heseemed to me to be quivering with excitement. It must have been hiscalculations that upset him so. He rubbed his hands and danced fromplace to place, and kept getting more and more excited. Finally,however, he conquered his emotions and came to a standstill. He cast adetermined look at the future bride and wanted to move toward her, butglanced about first. Then, as if with a guilty conscience, he steppedover to the child on tip-toe, smiling, and bent down and kissed herhead.

"What, with him?" said Julian Mastakovich with a look askance at thegoverness's child. "You should go into the drawing-room, my lad," hesaid to him.

The boy remained silent and looked up at the man with wide-open eyes.Julian Mastakovich glanced round again cautiously and bent down overthe girl.

"What have you got, a doll, my dear?"

"Yes, sir." The child quailed a little, and her brow wrinkled.

"A doll? And do you know, my dear, what dolls are made of?"

"No, sir," she said weakly, and lowered her head.

"Out of rags, my dear. You, boy, you go back to the drawing-room, tothe children," said Julian Mastakovich looking at the boy sternly.

The two children frowned. They caught hold of each other and would notpart.

"And do you know why they gave you the doll?" asked JulianMastakovich, dropping his voice lower and lower.

"No."

"Because you were a good, very good little girl the whole week."

Saying which, Julian Mastakovich was seized with a paroxysm ofagitation. He looked round and said in a tone faint, almost inaudiblewith excitement and impatience:

"If I come to visit your parents will you love me, my dear?"

He tried to kiss the sweet little creature, but the red-haired boy sawthat she was on the verge of tears, and he caught her hand and sobbedout loud in sympathy. That enraged the man.

"Go away! Go away! Go back to the other room, to your playmates."

"I don't want him to. I don't want him to! You go away!" cried thegirl. "Let him alone! Let him alone!" She was almost weeping.

There was a sound of footsteps in the doorway. Julian Mastakovichstarted and straightened up his respectable body. The red-haired boywas even more alarmed. He let go the girl's hand, sidled along thewall, and escaped through the drawing-room into the dining-room.

Not to attract attention, Julian Mastakovich also made for thedining-room. He was red as a lobster. The sight of himself in a mirrorseemed to embarrass him. Presumably he was annoyed at his own ardourand impatience. Without due respect to his importance and dignity, hiscalculations had lured and pricked him to the greedy eagerness of aboy, who makes straight for his object--though this was not as yet anobject; it only would be so in five years' time. I followed the worthyman into the dining-room, where I witnessed a remarkable play.

Julian Mastakovich, all flushed with vexation, venom in his look,began to threaten the red-haired boy. The red-haired boy retreatedfarther and farther until there was no place left for him to retreatto, and he did not know where to turn in his fright.

"Get out of here! What are you doing here? Get out, I say, yougood-for-nothing! Stealing fruit, are you? Oh, so, stealing fruit! Getout, you freckle face, go to your likes!"

The frightened child, as a last desperate resort, crawled quicklyunder the table. His persecutor, completely infuriated, pulled out hislarge linen handkerchief and used it as a lash to drive the boy out ofhis position.

Here I must remark that Julian Mastakovich was a somewhat corpulentman, heavy, well-fed, puffy-cheeked, with a paunch and ankles as roundas nuts. He perspired and puffed and panted. So strong was his dislike(or was it jealousy?) of the child that he actually began to carry onlike a madman.

I laughed heartily. Julian Mastakovich turned. He was utterly confusedand for a moment, apparently, quite oblivious of his immenseimportance. At that moment our host appeared in the doorway opposite.The boy crawled out from under the table and wiped his knees andelbows. Julian Mastakovich hastened to carry his handkerchief, whichhe had been dangling by the corner, to his nose. Our host looked atthe three of us rather suspiciously. But, like a man who knows theworld and can readily adjust himself, he seized upon the opportunityto lay hold of his very valuable guest and get what he wanted out ofhim.

"Here's the boy I was talking to you about," he said, indicating thered-haired child. "I took the liberty of presuming on your goodness inhis behalf."

"Oh," replied Julian Mastakovich, still not quite master of himself.

"He's my governess's son," our host continued in a beseeching tone."She's a poor creature, the widow of an honest official. That's why,if it were possible for you--"

"Impossible, impossible!" Julian Mastakovich cried hastily. "You mustexcuse me, Philip Alexeyevich, I really cannot. I've made inquiries.There are no vacancies, and there is a waiting list of ten who have agreater right--I'm sorry."

"Too bad," said our host. "He's a quiet, unobtrusive child."

"A very naughty little rascal, I should say," said Julian Mastakovich,wryly. "Go away, boy. Why are you here still? Be off with you to theother children."

Unable to control himself, he gave me a sidelong glance. Nor could Icontrol myself. I laughed straight in his face. He turned away andasked our host, in tones quite audible to me, who that odd youngfellow was. They whispered to each other and left the room,disregarding me.

I shook with laughter. Then I, too, went to the drawing-room. Therethe great man, already surrounded by the fathers and mothers and thehost and the hostess, had begun to talk eagerly with a lady to whom hehad just been introduced. The lady held the rich little girl's hand.Julian Mastakovich went into fulsome praise of her. He waxed ecstaticover the dear child's beauty, her talents, her grace, her excellentbreeding, plainly laying himself out to flatter the mother, wholistened scarcely able to restrain tears of joy, while the fathershowed his delight by a gratified smile.

The joy was contagious. Everybody shared in it. Even the children wereobliged to stop playing so as not to disturb the conversation. Theatmosphere was surcharged with awe. I heard the mother of theimportant little girl, touched to her profoundest depths, ask JulianMastakovich in the choicest language of courtesy, whether he wouldhonour them by coming to see them. I heard Julian Mastakovich acceptthe invitation with unfeigned enthusiasm. Then the guests scattereddecorously to different parts of the room, and I heard them, withveneration in their tones, extol the business man, the business man'swife, the business man's daughter, and, especially, JulianMastakovich.

"Is he married?" I asked out loud of an acquaintance of mine standingbeside Julian Mastakovich.

Not long ago I passed the Church of----. I was struck by the concourseof people gathered there to witness a wedding. It was a dreary day. Adrizzling rain was beginning to come down. I made my way through thethrong into the church. The bridegroom was a round, well-fed,pot-bellied little man, very much dressed up. He ran and fussed aboutand gave orders and arranged things. Finally word was passed that thebride was coming. I pushed through the crowd, and I beheld amarvellous beauty whose first spring was scarcely commencing. But thebeauty was pale and sad. She looked distracted. It seemed to me eventhat her eyes were red from recent weeping. The classic severity ofevery line of her face imparted a peculiar significance and solemnityto her beauty. But through that severity and solemnity, through thesadness, shone the innocence of a child. There was somethinginexpressibly na´ve, unsettled and young in her features, which,without words, seemed to plead for mercy.

They said she was just sixteen years old. I looked at the bridegroomcarefully. Suddenly I recognised Julian Mastakovich, whom I had notseen again in all those five years. Then I looked at the brideagain.--Good God! I made my way, as quickly as I could, out of thechurch. I heard gossiping in the crowd about the bride's wealth--abouther dowry of five hundred thousand rubles--so and so much for pocketmoney.

"Then his calculations were correct," I thought, as I pressed out intothe street.